


(a tantrum, more or less)

by mitzvahmelting



Series: hoe kelly [2]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: 2018 season, Angst, Fear of Rejection, Fights, Hurt/Comfort, Joe Kelly suspension, M/M, Minor Injuries, Physical Intimacy, pitchers and catchers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 12:19:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18282278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitzvahmelting/pseuds/mitzvahmelting
Summary: Joe Kelly fights Tyler Austin on April 11th. After the appeals process, he gets officially suspended on April 26th, the last day of that week's Red Sox-Blue Jays series.He's not happy about it.





	(a tantrum, more or less)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ewidentnie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ewidentnie/gifts).



> okay so i wouldn't say this is GOOD exactly. it's kinda long, for no good reason except that i was enjoying being in this space with these characters. so please don't judge me for this story, it's not my BEST work. i'm still happy with parts of it though, particularly the main section of dialogue between luke and joe, and all the insights into why joe feels the way he feels and does the things he does.
> 
> i'd really appreciate if you guys commented or something if you like it :) it really means a lot to me
> 
> oh also fair warning there's no sex in this story. i'm probably gonna write the sex at some point but it's not in this one. sorry to disappoint!!

**26 April 2018, 5:54PM, Joe**

_ Pack up your stuff,  _ they said.  _ Security guards will be enforcing the suspension. Stay out of the dugout, stay out of the bullpen, stay out of the stands. _

The visitor locker room is nearly empty; everyone’s at warm-ups already except for Chris, who’s here leaning against the bank of lockers like fucking Jiminy Cricket, an unwanted judgemental presence.  __ “You should have apologized,” he tells Joe, watching dispassionately down his nose as Joe shoves his sneakers and spare clothes into his backpack. “Or you should have just kept your cool on the mound. They wouldn’t have given you more than two days, tops, if you hadn’t provoked him. If you’d just stood there and let him come at you.”

“Don’t know why you’re here,” Joe grunts, zipping up the bag. “Not like I’m gonna cut up the uniforms or something.”

That makes Chris’s lip curl, and Joe hides his own burning satisfaction by turning his focus down to unlacing his cleats. “I just want you to learn from this, for the future,” Chris says. “This didn’t have to go down this way. You didn’t even have to hit him in the first place.”

“Like you wouldn’t have.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have looked so eager for a fight.”

Joe scoffs. “You always look eager for a fight.” 

Chris sets his jaw and crosses his arms. “I know how to fake diplomacy on the mound, when it’s necessary. It’s a fucking skill, Joe, and you need to  _ learn  _ it.”

“Oh, suck my dick. You’re not a coach, and frankly you’re not an expert in ‘diplomacy.’” Joe shoves his other foot into his street shoes and stands up, hoisting his backpack over one shoulder.

“What’d they say about the appeal?”

_ (“You said it’d be fine!” Joe shouted at Alex, with hands balled into fists - his bag thrown haphazardly into the cubicle. “You said they’d drop the suspension!” _

_ “I said they  _ **_might_ ** _ drop the suspension,” Alex corrected him. _

_ “Appeal it again!” Joe cried, furiously. “I did everything I was supposed to do. I pitched where he wouldn’t get hurt. I kept my face neutral. It’s on the tape!” _

_ Alex sighed. “You provoked him, chico.”) _

(They said, “After reviewing the footage it is clear that Joseph Kelly Jr.’s unsportsmanlike behavior necessitates moderate disciplinary action,” and they gave Joe a six game suspension, in contrast with the paltry four game suspension they gave to the Yankees’ Tyler Austin who technically started the fight.)

“You know what they said?” Joe spits out, mockingly, “They said,  _ this never would have happened to Chris Sale, our favorite golden child of the League who never gives us any problems whatsoever!” _  He shoves past Chris, knocking their shoulders together.

He doesn’t get very far. Chris’s fingers are knotted up in the fabric of Joe’s sweatshirt collar.

“Where are you going?” Chris asks.

“Let go,” Joe stiffly replies, his blood boiling hot in his veins. Who does Chris think he is, manhandling Joe, like Joe couldn’t lay his ass out on the floor of the locker room right this second?

“You’re angry. Your pride is wounded. This is the  _ problem _ , Joe, you need to  _ face _ those things and do something about it!” Joe tries to tug away, but Chris’s grip is unyielding. “Where are you going to  _ go?” _ Chris asks again. “Just stay here and wait till after the game; you can take the shuttle to the airport with the rest of us. Otherwise they might not let you into the terminal-”

“Sale,” Joe says, venomously. “You need to let go of me right now, or I’ll break your fingers.”

Chris hesitates. He stares down at Joe like Joe is a stranger, which is especially infuriating because they’ve had this same argument hundreds of times before, so why is Chris so shocked that Joe is pissed?  He lets go of Joe’s sweatshirt.

Joe punches him in the groin. Chris topples, and his face turns red, and he clutches at his balls like an idiot.  _ “FUCK!”  _ he chokes out, there on the floor in his goddamn uniform which, unlike Joe, he’s still allowed to wear.

Joe gets out of there and he doesn’t look back.

-

**10:34PM, Luke**

There’s a kind of majesty to playing series in other people’s stadiums, where the sky is open, and the enormity of the world is more immediately apparent; this grandeur. 

But it’s easier to lose a game in the Dome. Everything is just the same as it would be with an away game, but the sky is hidden, and it lends itself to the illusion that any mistakes are also hidden from the gaze of the world and from God.

The clubhouse is a little quiet, a little disappointed, because it’s tough to lose by such a small margin two nights in a row. But it isn’t so bad. It’s still early in the season, so they temper their disappointment, because they know how a sour mood can spread virally throughout a clubhouse and ruin morale. Everyone licks their own wounds, and they take a breath, and they get ready to play again tomorrow.

“Maile!” Luke sits up in his seat, tracks the unfamiliar voice - it’s the Red Sox catcher, knocking on the open door of the clubhouse. Sandy León’s generally got a friendly face, but he’s still in his uniform, and Luke wouldn’t be surprised if folks weren’t happy to see him.

No one says anything about it, though; no one picks an unnecessary fight. 

Luke stands, drops his bag in the locker, and goes over to León. “Can I help you with something?” he asks.

León pulls Luke into the hallway - the clubhouse manager gives them an odd look, but doesn’t say anything. By the concrete wall and away from prying ears, León looks into Luke’s eyes, searchingly, and he says in his thick accent, “I’ve heard good things about you, man. You’re a good catcher.”

“Thanks?”

“You - you care about your boys, yeah? You take care of your bullpen.” León looks away and scratches uncomfortably at his beard.  His cleat taps on the floor.

“I do…” Luke confirms, not sure where León is going with this.

“I do too,” León says. “I need a favor, my friend.”

 

Luke and Marco have a standing meeting after Marco’s starts, to review the footage. He can’t bail on that kind of commitment. Though Luke understands the gravity of León’s request, he can’t prioritize a Boston pitcher over one of his own. 

So Luke gave León the requested information, and then he warned the other catcher,  _ It’ll take me a couple of hours to get out of here; I’m sorry. _

León had understood. It sounded like León just wanted to send the missing pitcher Luke’s contact information, just in case something happened, just in case he got lost or… or whatever other problems can befall a wayward thirty-something in a strange city.  _ He’s a tricky one, _ León had said, somewhat mournfully.  _ I hope he meets us at the airport, but I suspect he won’t. _

There’s a certain type of catching philosophy that León and Luke both ascribe to, where you’ve got this  _ ownership _ of the pitchers, this profound  _ responsibility  _ for their wellbeing that extends beyond just signalling pitches and getting them through the inning.  The casters call it a “special connection,” or a “magic touch.” And if Luke had to trust the wellbeing of one of his boys to a stranger, then of course he’d rather that stranger be another catcher like him.

That said, usually Luke only has to take that leap of faith when it’s time for folks to get traded. Luke’s never heard of a situation like this before, where the crisis is only that León’s pitcher is somewhere in Toronto, alone.

When Luke parks in the basement lot of his apartment building, he sees a text notification from León:  _ he is not at the airport. Airplane is leaving soon without him. Sent him your address but i have not heard back. _

_ He’ll probably just go to a hotel, _ Luke points out.

_ Maybe he will. Sorry for the trouble. I am worried for him if he is alone, so I am hoping he goes to you. Must turn off phone now. _

Luke sits in the silence of his vehicle, recalling in his mind’s eye the genuine worry he’d seen on León’s face. If something had made León worried enough to go to the opposing catcher and ask for  _ help… _ it must be something terribly important.

If Kelly  _ does _ come to Luke for help, León’s expectation is for Luke to treat Kelly like one of his own. And that… that’s not so hard. Luke’s capacity for caretaking is a skill, not a limited resource he’ll run out of if he spends it on other people’s pitchers. In fact, he’s eager to be of service in that regard. He’s already feeling that tug of worry in his own heart. Though he’s never met Kelly, he imagines how he would feel if it had been Aaron, or Marcus…

There was a particular game, back in July of 2017. It was right after Luke hurt his knee, before anyone had realized the injury would keep Luke benched for another seven weeks. The doctors wanted him to rest, so he stayed in the clubhouse and lifted his knee on the pillows of the sofa, watching the game on the monitor. He wanted to be there, for his boys, if they needed him. He would always be there.

Aaron Sanchez was starting. It was only his sixth start of the season, because his fingers had been bothering him, and the new baseballs had been bothering him. He’d confided in Luke a week before, “Something doesn’t feel right,” and the words hung ominously over Luke as he watched the warmups.

He was right to worry.

The kid only made it through one and a third innings. By the time they took Aaron out of the game, his ERA had jumped to 4.85 and his hand was bleeding again. He stumbled up into the clubhouse, shook-up and distraught, and Luke was sitting there waiting for him.

On that day in early July, they didn’t  _ know _ that Aaron would only pitch two more games during the regular season. They didn’t know that he’d finish the season - what was meant to be his second full year as a starter - with only 36 innings pitched.

But it sure felt like they knew.

Aaron just fell against Luke and cried. The doctors wanted to check his hand and Luke shooed them off. He held Aaron, and listened to him whisper nonsensically, “they’re gonna scratch me, they’re gonna send me back down, I had my  _ chance,  _ man, I had my - I had my chance -” 

Luke is barely a year older than Aaron, and newer to the team. But in that moment, Aaron was looking up at Luke, trusting Luke, as if Luke had been his catcher for years.

So that day, that early afternoon, Luke held Aaron, squeezed him into a hug and murmured reassurances into his hair. He held Aaron for the rest of the  _ game,  _ seven more innings spent establishing this quiet recovery for his pitcher, as well as staring at Aaron’s finger and wondering if it would need surgery.

Luke just wanted to make it  _ better _ .

 

There is no wayward Boston pitcher in the lobby of Luke’s apartment building, and there’s no wayward Boston pitcher in the hallway near Luke’s door. Luke unlocks the apartment, and, as expected, there is nobody in there either. The lights are still off. Everything is just as he left it this morning.

For a moment, he considers going out into the city and  _ searching  _ for Joe Kelly. He discards the idea only because the city too huge and he wouldn’t know where to start looking.

Instead, he turns on the television and he washes the dishes, worrying to himself, and wishing that there was something more he could do. He doesn’t know Sandy León very well, but he cares about  _ catching,  _ and he cares about  _ pitchers,  _ and the gravity of that care applies to León’s situation the way the bright light of a projector shines through a transparent slide. It’s so easy to just slot Joe Kelly into place in Luke’s heart.

-

**7:20PM, Joe**

First, Joe spends two hours hiding in a Starbucks and feeling bad for himself. There were other coffeeshops to choose from, but he feels safe in a chain; someplace familiar, like his body takes up less room and he attracts less attention. Everyone minds their own business in a chain coffeeshop. They’re not here for the atmosphere.

He listens to the game on his phone. Makes himself miserable. He wants to warn them,  _ Estrada will go for the pickoff, rather than pitch to J.D.  _ But what can he do? He’s suspended and sitting in a goddamn Starbucks listening over the radio. Benny gets picked off, and the inning ends.

Maybe it’d hurt less, if they’d lose. ‘Cause then Joe could come back and feel vindicated -  _ see, you need me! I’m an important part of this team! _ Instead, they win handily without his input, without his pitching, without him entirely. They’re not even bothered by his absence. The broadcasters don’t even mention him. 

The Starbucks closes at 11:30pm. Sandy has texted like ten times about going to some random Blue Jay’s house:  _ Joey,  _ he writes, and  _ please,  _ which is honestly not fair, because Sandy knows how much “Joey” is like a kick in the gut, how much it makes Joe helpless to obey. Sometimes Sandy calls him “Joey” in the bullpen and Joe hates it. Hates that it makes him feel soft. Hates that it makes him throw whatever Sandy’s telling him to throw because he just wants Sandy’s approval. It makes him feel like a kid trying to earn his spot at the show.

Hasn’t he earned his spot? Hasn’t he earned this?

_ Don’t do something you’ll regret,  _ Sandy begs him.

The part of being suspended that gets under Joe’s skin is the powerlessness. Sometimes during the regular season you wonder if you’re really contributing anything, and there’s ways to test that, if you really want to test it. But when he’s suspended, that choice is taken out of his hands. He’s forced to look at what the team plays like without him. He’s forced to contend with the fact that he’s… replaceable, or even unnecessary in the first place. 

And he’s forced to accept a punishment when he hadn’t even done anything wrong, or at least, he wouldn’t have done anything differently given the choice.

And he feels like everyone’s watching him, like they know he’s done something wrong, like they know he’s being  _ punished,  _ like a kid, like a goddamn child.

And he can’t get un-suspended.

He hates that, too. That there’s no way out. No way to convince anyone to let him back. It’s just this permanent block that he can’t get around. He has to sit in time-out.

Tyler Austin’s suspension is shorter. That’s mind-boggling. That’s infuriating. Tyler  _ started  _ it.

Without much else to do, Joe follows the map on his phone to the address Sandy sent him. It’s this classy little brick four-story tower within walking distance of the stadium. The front door to the building is unlocked. If Joe wanted to - which, he  _ doesn’t _ \- he could sit on the stairs and wait for the Blue Jays catcher to come home.

And then, what? Ask to stay the night?

If Joe offered to hook up with Maile, they’d share the bed together. But Joe’s not in the mood for that, which means he’d probably be on Maile’s couch. Which is just… stupid.

It’s like Sandy thinks he needs to be  _ supervised.  _

Joe can’t even calm down. Three hours listening to the baseball game in a Starbucks, and he’s only gotten more furious, more fidgety. Digging his fingernails into his palms. 

Calming down feels like giving in.

He kicks the doorstep of Maile’s building. The rubber toe of his shoe bounces off the brick staircase.

He starts walking up the sidewalk, looking for a bar.

_ Don’t do something you’ll regret. _

He kind of resigns himself to it. He feels all this useless energy in his body. If he’d been at the game he could have thrown in the bullpen or in the cages or something. Could have lifted weights.

He just wants to hit someone.

He just wants the excuse. 

_ Don’t do something you’ll regret -  _ yeah, well, it’s out of his hands, at this point. It’s out of his control. It’s something burning inside of him that he has to get out, one way or another. 

Is he going to regret it? Well, he’s not going to start the fight. He’s not going to instigate. He’s just gonna look for one to finish. He’ll show Sale what plausible deniability looks like.

He’ll convince some asshole to  _ hit  _ him and maybe his skin won’t feel so tight anymore.

-

**1:03AM, Luke**

Luke was right to worry.

At around one in the morning, he’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth and getting ready for bed. He’s resigned himself to the helplessness of knowing that there’s an emergency happening somewhere in the city but he’s unequipped to help. He’s resigned himself to turning his phone on as loud as it’ll go, so if someone calls, the ring will wake him up.

Suddenly, there’s a loud banging on the front door. It makes him flinch and choke a bit on his toothpaste; the urgency of the sound shocks him out of his drowsiness.  _ The emergency? It’s here now. _

The banging starts up again. “I’m coming!” he shouts, dropping the toothbrush on the side of the sink and wiping his hands on his t-shirt.

After three long strides to reach the door, he has the presence of mind to glance through the peephole. He’s not… entirely sure that it’s Joe Kelly on the other side, but before he can really study him, the man starts banging on the door  _ again  _ and Luke has to jump back before the vibrations bruise his face.

Luke tugs open the door.

“ _ Move!” _ the man shouts, shoving Luke out of the way and tearing through his apartment. In a flash, he turns the corner to the bedroom blindly and disappears. 

Like a Loony Toon left standing frazzled in the middle of a dust cloud, Luke stares at the space Joe just vacated. “Joe?” he calls out, towards the bedroom.

Hopefully he didn’t just let a complete stranger into his home.

He hears a muffled  _ “Shut up!”  _ from down the hall, and then, “ _ Shut the door, idiot! _ ” which, to Luke’s overtired ears, sounds just friendly enough in tone that it probably is, in fact, Joe Kelly.

Bemused, Luke finally moves to close and lock the front door, when he notices the elevator doors open down the hall, through which two uniformed police officers step out.  _ Oh. _ They make eye contact with Luke before he can shut the door, which means, well, they probably know where Joe went.  _ Right. _

Luke hasn’t met many police officers in his life, and he’s never been on the wrong end of the law. Will this get into the news? Will it reflect poorly on the Blue Jays organization? León didn’t mention Joe would be getting into  _ this  _ kind of trouble.

“Sir?” one of the officers calls out, “Could we speak with you for a moment?”

Luke grimaces, when he realizes what he must look like. He’d almost gone to bed, so he’s in his boxers, and there are wet handprints on his t-shirt from where he’d wiped them off. “Sure,” he says reluctantly as they approach him. “How can I help you?”

It’s two female officers, and one of them is taller than Luke, which is saying something. They’re not running or holding weapons or anything, so whatever Joe did probably wasn’t  _ that  _ bad, but they definitely know that Joe is in the apartment, even if they’re feigning ignorance. “We were responding to a public disturbance call a few blocks over when the man responsible took off and ran. He’s a white man about this tall, early thirties, a little roughed up. Wearing a grey sweatshirt. You seen anyone like that?”

Luke swallows. “No, ma’am.”

The officer pauses a moment and looks directly at Luke. “Do you live alone, Mr…?” 

“Maile. Yeah, I - You can see it’s just my name on the door. I don’t live with anyone else.”

“Does this description match any of your neighbors, Mr. Maile?” she asks. “We’re fairly certain he came to this floor.” 

The taller officer stares at the nameplate and frowns. “Hey, Tanya. Do you recognize this name?” She holds her chin thoughtfully, and then she looks at Luke to study him as well. “Hey, you’re a Blue Jay, aren’t you?”

Luke coughs into his fist to hide his relieved smile. He doesn’t mind leaning into the privilege of name recognition - at least, he doesn’t mind doing so at one in the morning on a weeknight with the police at his doorstep. “Yes, ma’am. I’m a catcher. Are you a fan?” 

She lights up. “Yeah, my kids and I watch. Tough luck in the game today.”

“Thanks,” Luke says, warmly, “I appreciate -”

He’s interrupted by a loud thump, somewhere in the bedroom, and a muffled  _ “Shit! Fuck!” _

The officers look back at Luke, both of them frowning.

“Listen, um,” Luke says, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “Could I ask a favor?  __

 

He promises the officers that he has the situation handled, that their suspect won’t be causing any more trouble. He promises that he’ll foot the bill himself if there was any property damage - they’ll know where to find him - and he takes some selfies with the officers, too, for good measure. They’re cooperative; Joe must have been so frustrating to track down in the first place that they’re glad to wash their hands of him. 

When he finally shuts and locks the front door, he’s really feeling the hour, exhaustion settling in behind his dry eyes. He yawns, and pads down the hall towards where Joe must be hidden. If he was more awake, maybe he’d be nervous about the things he still doesn’t know about the situation unfolding in the otherwise private space of his own home, but as it’s so late, all Luke feels is relief. 

He’s relieved that things worked out, that Joe actually showed up. He feels… proud that he’s now in a position to help, to support León. It takes a weight off Luke’s shoulders to feel less… useless. On the path to the bedroom, he texts León an update -  _ Found him. _

_ - _

**1:00AM, Joe**

Joe had sprinted almost a mile to get back to Luke Maile’s apartment. Now that he’s here, he can’t catch his breath. He bangs on the door and shoves past when the door opens. A hiding spot - he has to find a hiding spot in Luke Maile’s apartment. There’s a walk-in closet off the master bedroom, much neater than a ballplayer’s closet has any right to be, and Joe jumps into it and shuts the door. That’s three doorways between him and the police. They won’t search without a warrant.

Breathing is hard. Breathing is hard. His chest still hurts. He drops to his knees, and, “Shit! Fuck!” it hurts, blindingly. He’s probably bleeding on the carpet.

Maybe this is where his luck runs out? That’d be… that’d be funny. That primal part of his brain is utterly terrified, even though he keeps reminding himself, like, he’s not going to go to jail. He picked a fight, you know, it’s not like he murdered anyone. It’s not like he stole anything. Jesus.

But maybe this is where his luck runs out. Because folks get into altercations with the law and they get suspended, and it goes on their record. At the end of this year, Joe’s a free agent, and getting suspended twice would tank his value… he may have just cost himself millions of dollars.

Millions of - 

God, his knees hurt. He’s shivering. It’s hard to see with all the wetness in his eyes. He’s done fighting for the night. He’s done fighting forever.

One time in grade school a kid stabbed a pen into Joe’s shoulder and it was horrifying, it was just horrifying. That’s what this feels like. Horrifying.

He’s gonna get suspended, again, for even longer, and then what? Then what? More time at Luke Maile’s house? Why is he even  _ here? _

The plane took off already and he’s still here in Toronto dealing with - consequences.

He wants to punch something, again, but he’s all punched out.

_ - _

**1:22AM, Luke**

It takes a moment, but Luke does finally find Joe, in the bottom of the walk-in closet. He’s curled up with his legs to his chest, hidden under the rows of Luke’s dress shirts, with his back against the wall, looking feral and scared. Much smaller than he ever looked on the mound.

Luke’s stomach sinks. 

Joe is bleeding. His lip is split, and there’s bruising all down the left side of his face, below his cheekbone and above his jaw. A jagged cut on his forehead is dripping blood as well, following a track down the inner corner of his right eye, and staining the collar of the sweatshirt. 

Then, his jeans are ripped at the knees. Maybe they were fashionably ripped to begin with, or maybe they were ripped sometime this evening, but regardless, the sections of skin peeking through the holes in the fabric are raw, like the whole first layer of skin was torn on the rough concrete of the sidewalk.

His knuckles are bloodied, too - perhaps the least surprising detail of all.

It makes Luke sick to hear stories of pitchers punching walls or lockers, breaking the bones in their fingers in fits of frustration. When he hears stories like that, he always wonders if the catcher could have done something different, could have managed the pitcher better and prevented that kind of self-destructive outburst. But as he looks down at Joe in this state, Luke isn’t thinking any of that, because he  _ knows  _ how hard León tried. Whatever anger was inside Joe this evening was something too terrible to be contained, like a earthquake with its epicenter in Joe’s chest, the destruction and upheaval rippling outwards.

Joe turns his face up at Luke, and Luke can see the blood in his teeth as he asks, “You’re Mail?”

“Maile,” Luke corrects him. “You look like shit.”

Dazedly, Joe chuckles to himself, running a finger over the ripped edge of the skin of his knee. “I can’t believe that just happened,” he says. “Do you think they knew who I was? Did you tell them? Alex is gonna kill me.” A laugh tears out of Joe, like a spasm, making his whole body jerk.

Luke lets out a breath. Joe doesn’t seem stable, and the  _ pity _ Luke feels for him is intense and all-consuming. “Let’s get you out of the closet, okay?”

Joe snorts, then mutters, “ _ Fuck _ , it hurts to smile.”  

-

**1:28AM, Joe**

It’s not Joe’s first rodeo. He’s familiar with the sensation of the adrenaline dying down, the way his body starts to remember what pain is supposed to feel like. Everything feels freezing cold, even though he knows the room is a normal temperature. The sting of the open scrapes is like ice, or like fire, or some undefined third element that combines the two.

He allows himself to be led to the kitchen. They take it slow. Luke’s hand on his bicep steadies him when he lists to the side. Everything is quiet, now, except for the choppy, aborted thoughts flickering in and out of Joe’s consciousness.

_ I wish Sandy was here. He’s warm -  _

Luke pats the white laminate countertop. “Hop up,” he says.

Joe squints. “I’m not  _ four. _ ”

Luke says, “It’ll be faster this way,” and he pats the countertop again, like maybe Joe will be more inclined to obey the second time. “Do you need help getting up?”

Joe can’t concentrate enough to determine the answer to that question, so Luke just lifts him. Like it’s nothing. Big catcher hands on the sides of Joe’s ribs; the only warm, steady touch he’s felt in over ten hours, and - 

On the one hand, it feels good, and Joe’s thoughts turn to  _ well, maybe staying the night in Luke Maile’s bed wouldn’t be so bad,  _ but on the other hand, Joe  _ definitely  _ got kicked in the ribs at some point this evening, and there’s a thin whine of pain coming out of his mouth before he can even think to hold it back.

Luke flinches, pulling his hands away. “I’m sorry,” he says, at eye level now so it’s easy for Joe to look at him, “I didn’t realize… damn. Why don’t you take your sweatshirt off; let me see the damage.”

“No,” Joe tells him.

“No?” Luke frowns, “You already bled on it, buddy, you’re going to need to take it off eventually.”

“Too cold,” Joe tells him, simply.

Luke nods in understanding, “Okay. I’ll get you a blanket.”

 

_ And so continues the cycle of other people cleaning up after my messes,  _ Joe thinks, bitterly. 

Still, he lets it happen. He sits perched on the counter, bouncing his ankles back against the doors of the cabinets, watching the other man gather the blanket and the first aid kit. This Blue Jays catcher isn’t someone whom Joe’s ever looked twice at before, but in the quiet of the late hour, wearing only a faded University of Kentucky t-shirt and loose boxers, Luke seems handsome beyond words. Joe tracks him, focusing on the pert little tip of Luke Maile’s nose as a distraction from the otherwise biting pain.

He’s so pretty. Like in those old movies from the sixties and seventies, where the injured army veteran would be sent to recover with the help of a Hollywood-beautiful nurse. How could anything hurt, when you’ve got someone that beautiful paying attention to you and only you?

“Okay, let me see.” Luke takes the hem of Joe’s sweatshirt and starts pulling it upwards - “Lift your arms,” he says, and Joe obeys. In the moment of bitter cold that follows, the hairs on the back of Joe’s neck stand on end. He finds himself wrapped up in a fleece blanket. It’s got a Blue Jays logo on it. He grips the edges and pulls it taut around himself.  

“No, no, hold on. Can’t wrap up just yet. Open up.” Luke pries open the blanket despite Joe’s whined objection, to peer in at the side of Joe’s torso.

Joe can’t really see the bruising himself, but from the expression on Luke’s face it must be pretty gruesome down there. “I don’t know, man,” Luke says, “you might need to go to the hospital. You might have a broken rib.”

“Heh, and wouldn’t that be ironic?” Joe mutters, sparing a thought for Hanley and that  _ other  _ HBP for which Joe’ll never be forgiven. Then he shakes his head. “No, I’ve broken ribs before; this doesn’t feel that bad. It’s just bruised.”

“Is it really worth the risk of not knowing?”

“I’ll get it checked out in Boston - I do  _ not _ have the patience for a hospital right now.” He searches Luke’s face for a sign of acquiescence, but Luke’s hard to read - he’s a stranger, after all. Somebody else’s catcher who, for some reason, has decided to treat Joe like his own. “Please,” Joe adds, as an afterthought.

Luke sighs, and focuses instead on opening up the first aid kit.

If Luke  _ had _ decided to drag Joe to the hospital against his will, would Joe have resisted? Joe’s not sure he has it in him, to resist anything else tonight. Picking a fight in the first place was some kind of resistance, and so was running from the cops. Maybe it’s time to give in, because he doesn’t have any more gas in the tank.

The same thing happened when he was in little league and they made him run endurance drills. He’d goof off and whine about it for the first three laps but by the fourth… his spirit would break like a tamed stallion, and it’d take all of his energy just to keep up with the rest of the pack of tiny athletes.

He can feel the exhaustion beading up in his tear-ducts.

_ I wish Sandy was here. _

Luke takes hold of Joe’s jaw, without warning. The heat of his fingers, the assuredness of his grip… then Luke’s face is there, just inches away, his skin so smooth, his eyes so thoughtful, and his pretty lips pursed in thought.

“Don’t swallow this,” says Luke.

Joe stares back at Luke, uncomprehending. Then Luke holds up a bottle and sprays something onto Joe’s mouth. It must be antiseptic, because it stings  _ terribly. _ He also sprays at the cut along Joe’s forehead, which isn’t quite as painful but it still adds to overall discomfort. Now, it isn’t only the exhaustion bringing tears to Joe’s eyes, but also the pain.

Joe feels… limp. When his chin is released, Joe’s eyes drift to Luke’s chest, the billow of the loose t-shirt, the faded collegiate lettering. Joe feels like he’s out-of-body, or at least out of mind. He lets Luke take his hands, and pull Joe’s knuckles one by one under the spray of the sink to clean out the debris, before spreading neosporin on the wounds.

The touch is clinical. The pain is lonely.

He asks Luke, “Why are you doing this?”

Luke pauses - still delicately holding Joe’s fingers over the kitchen sink. “I’m doing this so it doesn’t get infected.”

“I mean, why are you taking care of me?” Joe can’t summon enough contrarian energy to make the question sound accusatory… his voice sounds flat, and defeated, even to his own ears. “That’s not your job,” he reminds Luke. “That’s not anyone’s job.”

“León asked me to.”

Joe shakes his head. “You could have just given me the first aid kit. I can do it myself.”

For a silent moment, Luke seems to scrutinize Joe’s fingernails, bitten short. Then he takes a breath, and he says, “Listen,” to Joe without making eye contact. “You pitchers are glass cannons. When everything is right in your head and your body, you do some amazing things. But any little thing can set you off course. The only way you make it through a full career as a major-league pitcher is if you’ve got someone like me helping you pick up the pieces when things go wrong. Sure, anybody can get by day-to-day and live their life, but for a pitcher, ‘getting by’ isn’t good enough. Everything’s gotta be in perfect alignment. And that’s just too much work for one person to manage.”

Luke looks so serious, frowning in concentration, his tone sober and thoughtful. Joe can feel him touch the pads of Joe’s fingers, this intimate and unthinking connection that makes Joe feel exposed. All Joe can think to say is, “I’m not even on your team, though. You don’t owe me anything.”

Luke’s eyes flicker back up to Joe’s. “Owe you?” He smiles, oddly. “I don’t - I’m not doing this because I think I  _ owe _ you anything. I’m doing this because you  _ need  _ it.”

“I can take care of myself.”

Frustrated, Luke looks up at Joe’s face, but whatever he sees makes him stop short. His eyes fill once more with pity, and he sighs. “Of course you can take care of yourself. Of course you can. But I’m here, and I’m capable of helping you. Why wouldn’t I? You’re hurting, Joe, and I want to help.”

Joe wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he wants Luke to keep helping, too. If he’d been alone to take care of his injuries, in some under-stocked hotel room… if he’d had to look down at himself and see the damage he’d caused to his own body, he’s not sure what he would have done to himself in retribution for his own stupidity.

And besides that, it’s nice to be taken care of. It’s so… it’s so nice.

\--

**1:39AM, Luke**

Luke is watching, and he can see the moment that Joe starts to give in. The way the furrow of his brow disappears, the way the sharpness of his gaze fades. The way his cold fingers uncurl for Luke to inspect.

Luke can tell that it’s a masculinity thing, the way Joe has to pry apart these layers of defensive aggression just to let Luke get this close to him. It’s hardly an issue unique to Joe. Still, it feels almost  _ inhumane _ , to take this hard-earned vulnerability Joe is finally sharing with him, and throw a wrench in it.

Luke doesn’t want to have to do this.

“Joe, I need you to take your pants off.”

“What?” Immediately Joe tenses up again, pulling the blanket around himself and staring at Luke. Joe’s skinned knees are vividly red with blood, long lines dripping down into the fabric, and then soaking into the top hem of his socks. “Can’t you just put a bandage on through the hole?”

“The pants are too tight for that. See - the edge of the fabric is already pulling at the open skin. It’s gotta be cleaned.” Luke winces, sympathetically. “It’s gonna hurt. I can try to help you pull the fabric away from it while you slide your leg out.”

Joe laughs, or tries to laugh without smiling enough to stretch his split lip. “One problem: I don’t think you want my bare ass on your counters.”

Luke doesn’t react to that. To be honest, he half expected that Joe wasn’t wearing underwear, with pants that tight. “You’re already bleeding on my counters; I was going to disinfect anyway.” With that said, Luke rinses the lingering antiseptic and bandaid-glue from his hands. “Open your fly.”

(In the back of his mind, Luke comes to the conclusion that Joe is probably gay, and he wonders if that means Joe will feel less or  _ more _ vulnerable taking his clothes off in front of Luke.)

They work together to peel Joe’s jeans off and away from him. As hard as Luke tries to keep the fabric from dragging against the raw wound, the frustrated  _ “Ow, ow, ow,”  _ muttered under Joe’s breath tells him he’s probably not doing a great job. One leg, and then the other, slowly and carefully and as painlessly as possible.

“How’d you wind up skinning your knees, anyway?” Luke asks, mostly to offer a distraction from the pain. “You’d have to be moving pretty fast to do this kind of skid damage. You can’t have just been running.”

“I borrowed someone’s skateboard when the cops showed up.”

Luke laughs under his breath. “Of course you did. I don’t suppose you’ve also got tattoos, piercings, and dyed hair?”

“Two out of three ain’t bad,” Joe quips, tightly, as they finally rescue his other knee from the jeans.

Joe cooperatively shifts his body to push one knee under the spout of the sink where Luke directs him - they both try to ignore the nudity.  “Were you this much of a delinquent in high school?”

“Not really. This hasn’t happened to me before -  _ shit!” _ Joe cries and flinches when the water makes contact. “Turn it slower?”

Luke obliges, so the water comes out as more of a pour than a hail. He scrubs gently with a fingernail at the blood which dried below and outside the wound, letting the water clear the blood and debris from the wound itself. Luke observes the little pieces of gravel falling to the drain, as the skin turns pinker. He decides to leave the water running over it for about a minute, if Joe can stand it that long - it’ll cool off some of the inflammation. In the meanwhile…

Maybe things are stable enough now to ask the question. Joe looks tired, mellowed out, with none of the anxiety from earlier except for, perhaps, the tension of being nude in another man’s apartment. So Luke asks him, finally: “Why’d you run away, today?”  He still keeps a hand palm-down on Joe’s leg, partly to hold him in place under the water, but mostly because he suspects the touch is grounding for Joe, the way it usually is for Luke’s other charges.

“I got suspended,” Joe says, tonelessly.

“Because of that fight with the Yankees?”

“Yeah. Six games.” 

“So, what is this, a tantrum?” Luke asks, trying to tease a little to show he’s not trying to judge.

But Joe just deflates. “I don’t know. Maybe?” He runs a hand over his face and lets out a long sigh. “I guess I just thought Alex would put up more of a fight for me on the appeal. I mean, anybody else in that bullpen would have done the same thing, right, so why do I have to be the fall guy?”

“Can I have your other knee, now?” Luke asks, softly. Joe moves, shifting closer to the sink so he can put the far leg under the water.

“When the fight happened, everybody had my back,” Joe continues. “But nobody was there today, except Sale, and he just wanted to rag on me. I guess they think, hey, he’s got some time off, now. But I don’t want any time off.”

Luke nods, to show he’s listening, and he watches the water turn red, then pink, then clear.

“Do you know I’m not even allowed in the dugout?” Joe’s voice gets tight, raw. “For the whole homestand I’m not even allowed in the dugout. All my - all my  _ goddamn  _ teammates, basically every friend I’ve got, they’re all gonna be there playing and cheering each other on, and I’m not allowed to go anywhere near them, stuck behind this arbitrary barrier because I’m in - fucking  _ time out,  _ like a  _ child.”  _ Fat tears roll down Joe’s cheeks, and when Luke hands him the tissue box he grabs it and holds it close to himself, under the blanket. He buries his face in one and just hides, for a second, gasping in a breath. “It’s  _ stupid  _ to get this upset.”

“It’s not stupid.”

“Yes it - you know, I thought they’d be proud of me?  _ Boston’s _ fucking proud of me. But… I think, I think the team was a little bit ashamed?” He sniffles, and tries to wipe his eyes. “I always do this, I always blow up and get into fights right when things are good and I ruin everything. But I thought this time… I thought they wanted me to! I thought that’s what they wanted!” He’s looking directly at Luke, like he’s pleading for Luke to believe him. “If I’d known they wanted me to do something different, I would have! I would have done anything! I just - I just don’t want to be alone. But that’s exactly what happened, and I don’t get a do-over.”

Luke shuts off the water. In the silence, Joe’s crying sounds louder, though he’s trying his best to hold it back and get himself under control. There’s probably nothing for Luke to say in this moment that would be helpful. He washes his hands again with soap, dries them off, and then uncaps the neosporin.

“It’s just six games,” Joe mumbles, almost a whimper, while Luke’s thumb gently spreads the lotion over the wound. “It’s - it’s not a big deal.”

“It is, to you,” Luke says.

Joe nods, fervently, the pain bright in his eyes. His voice goes hollow, and breaks: “S-sometimes I think about how all of this is temporary… and how there’s only going to be so many games, only so many chances to be… to be near this group of people that make me feel - loved? I’ve only got so many games left before it’s over and… and now I’ve lost six of them, and I won’t - I won’t ever get them back.”

He doesn’t say anything for awhile after that. He sniffles, wipes his face, and he watches on miserably while Luke tapes down some squares of gauze to his knees. Luke has to blink a few times so he can see his work clearly - the thing about the transitory nature of baseball fraternity… that got to Luke, but maybe not in the way Joe meant it. It’s just… it’s all going to be over, someday, someday soon, and Luke understands what it feels like to mourn that loss, even before the losing.

When the wounds are covered, Luke straightens up and pats Joe’s thigh. Softly, he tells Joe, “I’m going to go find you something to wear.”

\--

**2:00am, Joe**

It’s funny. Joe had all these fantasies about a situation like this, being naked in a strange man’s house, being touched clinically and impersonally. Now that he’s experiencing it, he’s not sure why he wanted it in the first place. Maybe the crux of those fantasies was the conceit that the strange man  _ desired _ Joe… whereas, right now, Joe’s pretty sure he’s the least-attractive human being in a four-block radius.

Luke returns with pair of plain boxer-briefs, some loose sleep pants, and an old Jays BP t-shirt. Joe changes right there into the kitchen, careful not to catch the bandages on the fabric as he slips into the pants. 

“When you’re ready, I’ll help you get settled on the couch. I’ve got some extra pillows and blankets and stuff...”

Joe remembers a few hours back when sleeping on Luke Maile’s couch was the last thing he wanted to do tonight. Now… it doesn’t seem so bad, to be wrapped up in Luke’s clothes, in Luke’s blankets, on Luke’s sofa - there’s a safety, here, a sense of warmth that would have been absent from a hotel room, and to Joe, that warmth is like a liferaft.

“Okay,” Joe says. “Thank you.” 

Gently, Luke continues, “and if you’d like to hear it, I think I have some advice for you.”

Joe tenses up a bit. The qualifier -  _ if you’d like to hear it -  _ is something Joe usually hears from people who are fed up with Joe’s bullshit. But from Luke, it sounds patient… it sounds like he genuinely wants to give Joe the option to refuse.

Joe says, “I’m listening.”

Luke leans his hip against the kitchen counter, and crosses his arms. “I think it’s FOMO. You’re dreading the fact that you’re going to miss out on time with your team. It’s a little more complicated than that, but that’s the core of it, right? Missing out.”

Joe chews on this. Yeah, sure. FOMO. The trendy acronym to describe the fear of missing out. It seems odd to condense a half hour of sobbing into a neat little word like that, and it doesn’t describe  _ all _ of what Joe was upset about, but it’s an approximation. “Okay?” he prompts Luke.

“The best way to deal with that is to find better things to fill your time. Things that you wouldn’t have gotten to do, had you been at the game. You could go to a museum, or to a concert, or… I don’t know. Visit your family?”

No. No, Joe wouldn’t go back to California - he can’t hide anything from his mom, she’d see right through him and he doesn’t want her to see him like this, doesn’t want her to worry… and even if he did go home, that would just make him feel shittier and more alone, sitting on the sofa and watching the games on the television, wishing he could crawl through the screen.

But the principle of what Luke’s saying makes sense.

And it only takes a moment for it to occur to Joe that only one activity in particular would outweigh the ache of being alone.

So he blurts out, “Can we hook up?” and then he stares at the floor. He knows it’s a bad idea. He knows it could make Luke uncomfortable, or worse. And right after he decided he’d be  _ okay _ settling for the couch because it’s better than being alone in a hotel - he risks fucking it all up. He says it because he can’t filter himself, because he needs to know, because he wants it so bad that it overwhelms all reasonable thought.  _ This would make me feel better. _

And, God, the most embarrassing part is that Luke doesn’t even look  _ surprised.  _ Luke kind of smiles, mirthlessly, and he looks at the refrigerator instead of at Joe’s face. He asks, “Do you mean  _ tonight,  _ or do you mean  _ instead of going back to Boston?” _

Joe shrugs, feeling shy. “I don’t know, play it by ear?”

Luke laughs, halfheartedly. “And at what point during the hour that you’ve known me did you decide that you wanted to have sex with me?”

“Oh, I was ready to suck your dick just for letting me in the front door.”

Luke pinches the bridge of his nose and smiles, shaking his head. “Look, I… personally, I have no problem giving you whatever it is you think you need. But do you really think this will help anything?”

“Well-” 

“No, Joe,” Luke stands up straighter and takes a couple steps forward, “really, think about it. You can have a random hookup with a near stranger, but at the end of it, aren’t you going to feel more alone than before? Isn’t it the case that what you really want is love, and any pale approximation of it will just make you sore for the real thing?”

It sounds like Luke has had this conversation before. Maybe with someone else, or maybe with himself.

Joe turns it over in his head. He feels the coldness in his shoulders, and the sting of the lovingly bandaged wounds at his knees. “No,” he says to Luke. “What I really want is to not be alone. Being with you… would be enough. And you’re not really a random stranger. You… you care. I… want to be able to show you that I care, too.”

Then Joe yawns. It is, after all, two in the morning after a particularly eventful day. And Luke laughs at him, warmly. 

“Okay,” Luke says, and he nods to himself. “You don’t want to be alone - I get that. Come to bed with me, and, uh. Just bed for now. Sleep on it; see how you feel in the morning. Is that fair?”

“Yeah.” Joe grins at him. And there’s a relief that fills his body - the relief of knowing that he gets to touch and be touched, that he won’t be rejected, that he won’t feel rushed, that he can relax without worrying that time and opportunities are slipping through his fingers. “That’s fair.”

\--

**2:30am, Luke**

When Luke assumes the role of a caretaker, for his pitchers or for anyone else, it’s kind of like a filter over his thoughts and feelings, sieving out all but his most unselfish instincts. But now that Joe’s safe and stable and relatively pleased, it’s like Luke’s off the clock, and the filter stops working. 

And he thinks,  _ it’s kind of nice to see him wearing my clothes. _

And he thinks,  _ it’s kind of nice, to be looked at the way he looks at me. _

The lights are off, and Joe presses close, resting his forehead against Luke’s chest and brattily tugging Luke’s arm around himself. Luke obliges, despite the way their mixed breathing and the proximity is heating up the air. Luke had thought ahead to crack open the bedroom window to the cool Toronto air - soon, the cuddling will be comfortable. He can endure the heat of it until then.

Immediately upon entering the bedroom, Joe had tugged off the pajama pants and left them in a pile on the floor - now Luke can feel the naked brush of the gauze bandages against his thigh when Joe puts his knee there, and the semi-firm press of Joe’s briefs against his hip. Being this close to Joe is… odd, not because Luke is in any way unfamiliar with gay hookups, but because Joe isn’t the type of guy Luke typically goes to bed with. A pitcher, yes… repressed, yes… but shape of his body is different, angular and awkward. Not unlike Joe’s personality, Joe’s body makes it difficult to love him.

Something about that is charming.

The low hum of city traffic filters through the open window. Luke’s thumb finds the curve of Joe’s hip, and he caresses there, thoughtfully. He can feel the hot puff of breath when Joe sighs and shuts his eyes, relaxing at last.

Before they fall asleep, it occurs to Luke to warn Joe: “I do have a game, tomorrow. I’m not scheduled to play and I can probably show up late, but I do need to be there, and I can’t bring you with me.”

Joe hums. “When would you leave?”

“Around four. Stro’s pitching; he’ll need the support.”

“Can I stay here?” Joe whispers.

“Of course,” Luke tells him. “I just need to know if you’ll be alright on your own. I don’t want to come home to find you ran away or something in a fit.”

“Now, why would I do that?” Joe asks coyly, and then snickers, pressing his face against the pillow. “I’ll be fine.”

“You’re sure? Promise me.”

“I promise,” Joe says. Then he pulls himself even closer to Luke, tucking himself in against Luke’s body, finding warm places for every stray limb. “I’ll just be sure to keep the TV off. It’ll be fine as long as I don’t watch.”

“That’s a smart plan.”

“First one all day. Will you - will you kiss me?”

“In the morning. Try to sleep.”

Undeterred, Joe presses his lips against Luke’s t-shirt - a soft, emotional little gesture that only could happen at three in the morning. Then he settles down again, and they both shut their eyes, and try to rest.

As he’s falling asleep, Luke’s thinking about Sandy León. About trust. About what it feels like, when so much of your communication is  _ touch _ and then you suddenly find yourself physically distanced from your loved one. Not just anyone could have gotten through to Joe - it had to be someone equally fluent in this language of physical intimacy, and patient enough to follow through.

Against Joe's hair, Luke whispers, “Does León do this with you?”

Already half asleep, Joe doesn't open his eyes, and he slurs out, “we don’ sleep together, if that's what you're asking.” 

Stroking a hand down the length of Joe's unbruised side, Luke says, “It's not.”

Joe hums, then murmurs, “He gives good hugs,” and falls back into drowsy silence.

**Author's Note:**

> please comment if you liked it!!


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